


so over you

by jackonhighheels



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:46:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4341902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackonhighheels/pseuds/jackonhighheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sameen Shaw is dead. Time to move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. too dangerous to function

They called her _the invisible woman_ and she didn't oppose.

They called her many names, throughout the years. And she was every one of them - a _hacker_ , a _killer_ , a _psychopath_ and a _woman_ \- they often said it with such a distaste, she never understood. She couldn't care less, though. Let them have their names, she thought - and she would have hers; she was Root. 

Nowadays she was a  _prisoner_. Samantha Warren, the _fugitive_. Harold's doing this time, not the Machine's. Was it ' _too dangerous to function_ ' or ' _threat to her surroundings and herself_ '? It didn't matter, anyways. Root was overcame with grief and sorrow and Harold was afraid of her, of _this_ Root - the Root who threatened to jump from the six-story building, the Root who killed Martine in cold blood. He locked her up. She was like a princess in a tower now, waiting for her hero to come. (But Shaw wasn't coming anytime soon, was she?)

Root fiddled with a radio she borrowed from her bunkmate.

“Hey, you,” said bunkmate in question. “What you here for, sweet cheeks?”

“Murder,” Root giggled - good one, Harry. Who knew Finch was such a humorist?

“You don't look it,” the bunkmate winked. “Hard to believe you killed somebody with those arms.”

“I have my ways,” said Root and winked back. The bunkmate was a woman, Angela, way over her forties, gray hair in a messy bun. Decent looking, Root thought, considering they were in prison. Likeable. She remindered Root of Harold in a weird, parental way.

“Whatcha doing with that anyway, Warren?” Angela pointed at the radio. Root looked it over. Well, it wasn't going to work anymore, if that was what she was asking. She explained: “I'm making a redbox.”

“Never heard of it,” Angela shrugged.

“Well, it's more of a hobby, really. Although, it could be theoretically used to cheat on phone companies, to get free calls. Or I could sell it on the street in case I - let's say I broke out of this prison and found myself in a need of money. I can't exactly go visit my friends, you see.”

“You planning on leaving, sweetie?”

“Oh no,” Root faked a smile. “Why would you think that?” - It was, after all, a maximum security facility.

They didn't call her _invisible woman_ for nothing. She was out in a week.


	2. 4 AM pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment was perfect.

Two weeks after her grand prison break Root stood in the kitchen of a house she was currently staying at. She leaned against the table and looked at her new friend or something like that, Bobby - he worked in a porn bookstore down the street and they met in the bar. Root let out a laugh at the memory of their first meeting and shook her head. Daizo would just _love_ to hear the story.

The Machine whispered a single word in her ear and Root froze on the spot. She frowned and gulped on her drink. She wasn't here on a vacation, you see. There was no such thing with the Machine. The numbers never stopped coming - and they never will. But she sipped on vodka and slowly let herself relax for the first time in weeks, _hell_ , even months. (She doesn't want to think about the last time - the motel room and guns and knifes and pleasure and Shaw.)

“Hey, Bobby,” Root said. “I wanna make pancakes.”

“Pancakes?” he repeated after her as if he wasn't sure he heard that right. He scratched his head. “What the hell, Sam? It's four in the morning.”

Root unconsciously pulled on her right ear. “Let's make pancakes,” she almost begged him.

She suddenly remembered Harold's words from earlier about her being a danger to herself. To tell the truth, there was a rather thin line between being reckless and straight up suicidal and Root knew it. She walked this very line every day. She pulled on her ear once more. “ _Please_ , Bobby. It will be fun.”

It was a bad idea to be there, with Bobby, making pancakes of all the things. He was supposed to be just a number. She wasn't supposed to be this broken.

Root didn't care. She stopped caring long time ago; she stopped caring the minute the elevator door closed shut with her in it, but not Shaw.

The Machine insisted. Root ignored her.

“You have eggs somewhere?” Bobby pointed at the fridge. Root shrugged. The house wasn't hers, she had no idea what was in the fridge. (She doesn't remember the last time she ate.)

“Let's have a look and - _oh_ ,” Bobby scratched his chin. “Okay, I think we can manage. Find the pan, would you?”

She handed him a pan. Bobby seemed to know his way in a kitchen - “Bowl, please.”

“I found this recipe in my Grandma's cooking book. It was a family favorite,” he said, offhandedly. Root sieved together the flour, baking powder, salt and sugar and then poured in the milk. She cracked an egg and said: “Oh, really?”

“No,” Bobby smirked. “I have it from _allrecipes.com_.”

Root laughed. And in that moment there was no Shaw, no pain and turmoil boiling inside her, no disapproving looks from Finch and Big Lug's awkward attempts at compassion. Just Root and Bobby and half-done pancake. The moment was perfect for some reason.

But then the Machine spoke again and reminded her - all moments must come to an end.


End file.
